


saline solution

by qar



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Dadza, Depression, Family Dynamics, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Found Family, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, IRL Fic, Platonic Cuddling, Platonic Relationships, Self-Worth Issues, Sibling Bonding, Stress Induced Muteness, Suicidal Thoughts, big brother wilbur soot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-25
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-17 19:21:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28979547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/qar/pseuds/qar
Summary: Tommy finds that the silence and emptiness are almost suffocating these days. Phil and Wilbur help.Disclaimer:If any of the creators mention they are uncomfortable with these types of fics I will take this down.
Relationships: TommyInnit & Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit, Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit & Phil Watson
Comments: 52
Kudos: 1012





	saline solution

**Author's Note:**

> tw for mentioned suicidal thoughts, stress induced muteness (only for a bit) and depression - dw there's plenty of comfort <3

“You should sleep,” Wilbur says.

Tommy scoffs.

“You have college the day after tomorrow. Did you even finish that essay you were working on, Tommy?”

“What are you, my dad?” Tommy says vaguely, shifting his knee so he’s curled up more comfortably on his chair. It’s answer enough, and Wilbur sighs.

“Tommy, it’s late,” he says, and his tone isn’t disappointed but it might as well be. “You should sleep now.”

His alarm clock blinks at him. It’s digital, bright red, and strenuously loud in the morning over the soft chimes of his phone. _3:21,_ it says. It’s late. He should sleep.

“But I’m not tired,” he says, a whine present in his tone and keeping loyal to the bone-deep exhaustion that Tommy’s fighting back. He’s so, so tired. But leaving the call will bring with it the gaping feeling.

The worst part of it, Tommy’s decided. The worst part of the gaping feeling isn’t the emptiness, or the chill that wracks his bones. It’s the way he’s come to accept it. Welcome it.

Because he can sleep easily nowadays. It’s like his usual hyperactive thoughts have muted down to a quiet, steady hum that he can never seem to grasp. He’s stupidly grateful they’d figured out the plot of the Dream SMP beforehand; these days it’d be impossible to contribute in any way to the plot. They were still planning for the future, of course, but if anyone noticed his recent lack of input they hadn’t pointed it out. It had been easy to follow something of a script while acting, and the rest came relatively naturally; what emotion was missing in his real life poured into the roleplay.

Now that the second season’s over, though, and the new year’s rolled around, Tommy’s officially completely blank. He’s not streaming as often lately, if at all; something about lethargy and exhaustion and burnout. And, he remembers, bitterly focusing on the half finished essay in front of him, he can’t fucking be productive either.

“I mean it, Tommy,” Wilbur says, and it cuts through the fog that’s built up steadily at the forefront of his mind. “I’m leaving this call.”

_please don’t. please, pleasepleaseplease- i’ll be so alone- quiet- cold_

Tommy opens his mouth. Wilbur’s Discord icon greys out as he leaves the call, and the room is suddenly enveloped in a silence that’s so heavy it feels almost suffocating. There’s no follow up message. No ping.

He’s fucked up, hasn’t he?

It’s overwhelmingly cold. Tommy toes a blanket off the floor and tugs it up to his shoulders, digging his chin into it. Tucks it under himself, and himself into his chair. It’s still freezing; like ice water filling up his lungs and crawling up his windpipe and curling around his windpipe and slowly filling up his brain. He doesn’t think another blanket will help.

He hates you. Everyone does.

His bed looks so inviting. It’d be so nice to just- gather up the energy to move that one foot and collapse in it and maybe never wake up. Miracles happened.

He can’t. The energy doesn’t come to him. Instead he curls up tighter, hands fisting into the blanket for some semblance of warmth, and tries to ignore the emptiness that’d started to gnaw on him the moment he was left alone in the call. Blanks out his mind more than it’s been already, until it’s just him and him alone. The hum of his PC and the distant wail of sirens drowns out.

It’s far too easy to fall asleep nowadays, and Tommy reiterates this fact the next day when he falls asleep during a lecture, arms crossed on his desk and head pillowed in them. He feels, quite genuinely, like shit. The cold hasn’t left. He can’t focus on his class, and pulls off his headphones halfway when it gets too loud. The only thing he can think- he hates me, everyone hates me.

He scrapes his hand against his desk while pushing himself away from it. Discord’s open on his other monitor; Tubbo’s messaging him. He’s set his status to do-not-disturb, because he’s emo or some shit. He leans over to open Tubbo’s messages.

_elloo_

_hope u slept_

_wibur said yiu slapt late_

_I thunk hes straeming today ir you want to jiom?_

Tommy scrolls up absently, looking at the final message that’s been repeated far too many times only to be met with a negative. And part of him- the part that’s weighted down with guilt- types out _okay_ , and joins them in the stream and thinks that everything’ll be okay. The other part, the one that's scared and defensive and miserable, types out _not today_ and sits back.

He doesn’t reply.

It’s shitty of him. He just doesn’t have the energy. He- he can’t. He’s not weak, he’s not, but maybe if he doesn’t reply for long enough someone’ll notice enough to care, because he doesn’t deserve to ask for help. He doesn’t deserve anything.

And- y’know. He doesn’t want to bother them. Tommy’s presence is many things, but it’s mostly annoying. It’s cruel, maybe, to join every call they join and just ruin the fun.

His lecture’s still going, the sound tinny from his discarded headphones. He leaves them, instead turning and pressing his nose into the back of his chair, hooking his legs over the arms and giving up entirely on the blanket. Phil’d call his position gremlin-esque.

Phil, man, He- he was like- he was _safe._ He was like everyone’s dad. He reiterated, in most conversations, that anyone could talk to him for _anything._ Surely he wouldn’t mind. Maybe.

In some fit of exhaustion, Tommy pulls out his phone from where it’s crushed between him and his chair and opens Phil’s messages. The last one’s him inviting him to a stream. Tommy hadn’t replied. He cringes, now, looking at it.

_phil_

_can we talk_

_im scared_

And then there’s a moment of realisation and horror as he realises that he’s just- he’s fucking messaged someone, Phil, of all people- he was probably busy, or sleeping, or doing married things- ...why did he message him? Why was his message so fucking _vulnerable?_

He deletes the messages as fast as his shaking hands will allow him and sets his status to invisible, head rushing with incoherent thoughts as he reaches back to his desk and slides his phone across it in a muted frenzy. He shouldn’t have messaged Phil. He shouldn't've.

His phone vibrates on the bed. Vibrates again. Tommy buries his head into his arms and covers his ears. He’s made a fucking mistake. Again.

He feels just as awful when he wakes up, if not worse. His odd position has paid off, because his neck feels like someone’s bashed it in with a hammer and his spine is emotionally circular. His desktop’s gone dark, but lights up when Tommy bashes a hand blindly on his keyboard. His class had ended like- three hours ago.

He has fourteen messages from Phil. Two missed calls. His chest feels uncomfortably tight.

_message me or i will literally send will to check on you_

_tommy i’m not joking i’ll do it_

The last messages were two hours ago. Fuck, he thinks, and his mouse hovers over the call button as he pulls on his headphones. He presses it, reluctantly, because as much as he doesn’t want to bother Phil he wants Wilbur to drive over even less.

Phil picks up by the second ring. Connecting, his desktop proclaims, and Tommy stares at it blankly before his headphones explode with noise and he flinches. 

“Tommy, holy shit,” Phil says. “Oh my god, mate, you can’t just message me that you’re scared and disappear for a day!”

Oh. He- he’d seen the message. He was worried. This wasn’t supposed to happen- he wasn’t supposed to care. He formulates a response and opens his mouth to answer.

Tommy’s voice is something that’s okay.

It’s not a bad voice, except maybe the way it cracks and breaks at times and his awful fucking laugh. He’s come to stand it; years of being a band kid and a trained musician and editing his own videos has led to some form of acceptance. And by his own personal judgement- he’s decent at singing, even if no one else got to hear it. Still, it doesn’t stop him from hoping that some Frank Sinatra shit would happen, cause he likes Frank Sinatra and he doesn’t like himself very often.

His voice isn’t working.

He opens his mouth again. Nothing happens, except for maybe a lump in his throat suddenly coming to his attention. And then he realises that it’s a mixture of physically not being able to speak and a desperate want not to.

He hates speaking sometimes. Desperately wants to just communicate in hand gestures and the little sign language he knows and nods. But he’s fucking Tommyinnit. He has to be loud. He can’t be quiet, because something would be wrong, and that meant vulnerability and annoying others with his probably-made-up-issues. Why would Tommyinnit have any reason to _want_ to be quiet other than for the drama? The clout?

He tries one last time, for effort’s sake. He can’t. The only thing that comes out is something resembling a choked sob, and Phil makes a concerned nouse and answers with a “Tommy?”

 _i;m okay,_ he types in their messages. _sry._

Typing’s also weirdly hard. Not because of the way his hands are shaking violently; more like his brain just doesn’t want him to, the way it doesn’t want him to speak. Still, he’s not going to leave Phil in the dark like some over-dramatic bitch. 

_stupid it was niothiing,_ he types out again. _mistabe . you can go._

“Wait-” Phil says, and Tommy can hear him clicking- probably opening their messages. “No, no- Tommy, you’re sounding awfully self-deprecating here, mate, what’s wrong? Why are you typing?”

 _dont want to speal,_ Tommy replies, because as dramatic and attention-seeking as it sounds- that’s what’s happening, isn’t it? It’s not like he’s got any reason to not want to talk. _Sory._

“Don’t apologise,” Phil says, and his voice sounds significantly gentler. “Do you want to turn on your camera?”

Tommy doesn’t bother answering, instead unfolding his hands from his lap and reaching over to his desk, moving the mouse over to the camera icon. It takes him a minute to click it; his hands are still shaky and weird.

“You- yoou look horrid,” Phil says the moment Tommy loads in. Tommy looks away, a smile flashing over his face. “Have you been sleeping? Eating?”

He nods at the first, looking away from the camera, and vaguely bobs his head dubiously at the second, hands folding back in his lap as he pulls up his legs. A little, he gestures. 

“A little?” Phil asks, a frown pulling at his mouth when Tommy nods. “That doesn’t sound like enough.”

Tommy wonders how far this conversation can go with just facial expressions. He scrunches his nose dismissively. Phil sighs, a hand coming up to pinch at his nose. 

“That’s not enough,” he says, and Tommy blinks in surprise. Phil’s actually understanding him. Not pressing him to talk. The knot in his windpipe loosens slightly. “I’ll tell Wilbur to get you food on his way.”

Tommy startles at Wilbur’s name. “W- Wilbur?” he croaks out, reaching for his keyboard and dragging it onto his lap. _oh my god is wilbur coming philsza_

“He’s coming,” Phil says. “We were worried, mate. Will called your parents and they said you were fine, and that you’d fallen asleep on your chair and refused to move, but we all know how much you hate opening up to your parents so we decided it’d be best to get your big brother there.” He grins. Tommy’s completely sure he can see the blush that spreads over his face, even in the dark.

 _but he hates me,_ he types. 

“Tommy- Tommy this is why Wilbur’s coming,” Phil says, obviously aiming for lighthearted and falling a little short. “Tommy, none of our friends hate you. Where’d this come from?”

 _im an noying,_ Tommy says. _have you met thye man . he is a bitch and cool and should not watse time one me. and lkie yesterdy he got angry taght i wasnt speeling._

“He wasn’t angry,” Phil says gently. _sleeping,_ Tommy types. “He was concerned. And probably didn’t get that across well enough, huh?”

“Not at all,” Tommy mumbles. “I think I can tell when someone’s angry at me, Philza.”

“I dissent,” Phil says, but he pronounces it wrong. “Disagree. He wasn’t angry at all, he told me in the morning that he was worried.”

“Shouldn’t be,” Tommy says.

“You haven’t been eating enough, you’ve apparently been sleeping too much, and you haven’t been replying to people- Tommy, what’s wrong? What’s happening?”

“Nothing,” Tommy says, and his voice cracks horrifically halfway through the word. He winces, clapping a hand over his mouth as if it’d stop the damage. “Nothing. Just- dramatics. Fucking- stupid.” 

“Nothing about this is stupid, okay?” Phil says. “You might think it’s dramatics, but it really isn’t, is it?”

“I don’t know,” Tommy says, and _oh boy_ he sounds wrecked. “Phil- I don’t _know_ what’s wrong with me.”

“Nothing’s wrong with you,” Phil says, gentle. “You’re hurting. What have you been up to these days?”

“Nothing!” Tommy says. “Like- genuinely. Nothing at all.” He takes a moment to recuperate, catch his breath and clear his throat; Phil watches, concerned, leaning back into his chair. “I’ve missed like- ten essays,” Tommy starts, because it’s the thing he understands the most. “I just- I can’t write them. Nothing fits together. I don’t have the energy.”

He huddles into himself, hands gripping his biceps. “And hell- I can’t do fucking anything,” he says. “I can’t stream. I can’t- I can’t reply to people. Or message anyone without deleting it immediately. And- and I keep having these thoughts without any _fucking_ prompting!” His hand comes up to his hair and tugs violently. 

“Tommy!” Phil’s voice says into his ears. “Tommy- put your hands down.”

It takes him a moment to realise how hard he’s tugged; how tightly his fists are clamped around golden hair. It takes him another moment to pull them away and fold them back into his lap. I’m sorry, he signs; a fist making a circle over his chest. Funnily enough, it’s the only sign he remembers other than the alphabet.

“Sorry,” he repeats out loud. “Just…”

“You don’t have to apologise,” Phil repeats. “What kind of thoughts?”

Tommy shifts uncomfortably. “Bad ones,” he says eloquently. Phil waits. “Whenever I sleep- I always think hey, maybe this time I won’t wake up. Hopefully.”

Phil starts, slightly, looking physically pained. “Tommy,” he says. “Jesus Christ, I wish I could give you a hug right now.”

“Believe me, I’d love a hug,” Tommy says bitterly, pushing himself against the back of his chair. 

“You’ll be getting many on my behalf,” Phil says. “Wilbur’s reached.”

“What?” Tommy asks, eyes widening. “Phil- Phil, it’s like late evening, he’s gonna die on the way home- shit, he’s gonna kill me right here.”

Phil shoots him a reassuring grin. “You have a guest room. And he’s not gonna kill you,” he says. “Tommy. Have some more trust in me. I wouldn’t let you die, that’d suck.”

Tommy makes a face. “Would it really, though,” he says under his breath. Phil catches it, going off his _do-NOT-say-that_ expression he wears sometimes, when one of them makes an exceptionally horrible joke.

“It would,” he confirms. “You don’t die on my watch, okay? Or anyone’s watch. I’d be sad. You’d be making Philza Minecraft sad.”

“Okay, okay,” Tommy says, letting out a quiet puff of laughter. The doorbell downstairs rings, and he jumps. “Oh,” he adds eloquently. “He’s here.”

“He’s here,” Phil repeats. “You go meet him.”

Tommy stands halfway up his chair, unfolding his legs. They’re shuddering like it’s quirky. “Listen, Phil,” he says. He’s flushed again. “Thanks. And sorry.”

Phil smiles at him again. “You don’t have to apologise,” he repeats. “No problem. Go see _your Wilby_ now. And redeem my fucking hugs.”

“Will do,” Tommy says, not going darker at the _Wilby_ and leaning over to his desk. “See you.”

The call goes dark again, Phil’s icon disappearing a moment after his. This time, though, it isn’t followed by the all-encompassing feeling of grief and empty; rather, the beginnings of something warm that’d flared up during the call and a massive stone of anxiety in his gut.

He scrambles out of his chair, hoping one of his parents had let Wilbur in while he was saying goodbye to Phil. Indeed, when he opens his door- for the first time in a while, really, he’s been living off of cereal bars and explicitly nothing else because he hasn’t really been hungry- he’s met with Wilbur, on the last step of the staircase, and his mother holding Betty back. 

“Shall I leave you then?” she asks, although it sounds like it’s coming through a haze. 

“I’ll let you go,” Wilbur says, smooth as ever, and turns and meets Tommy’s eyes as she descends down the stairs, Betty nipping at her heels. “Hey, Tommyinnit,” he says, and he opens his arms and the anxiety that’s been twisting in Tommy’s gut drops away in an instant.

He lets out an oomph as Tommy all but throws himself into his arms, overcome with emotion. “Hi,” he repeats, carding a hand through the younger boy’s hair. “Hey, Tommy.” He’s not that much taller than Tommy, really, but it’s painfully easy to curl around him like some protective shield from the world. “Heard you weren’t feeling so good.”

Tommy doesn’t answer, but the shudder that wracks his body and the wet spot Wilbur can feel growing on his shoulder say enough. “C’mon,” he mumbles to the kid. “I bought burgers.”

He grabs the burgers with one hand- it’s McDonalds, because it’d been on the way there and Wilbur’d instinctively gotten some. “C’mon,” he repeats into Tommy’s hair. They’ve almost sunken completely to the ground, Tommy halfway on his lap. “We can talk in your room.”

“Yeah,” Tommy says hoarsely, allowing Wilbur to pull him up gently, still wrapped around him. “Wait- this- this isn’t very efficient.” Wilbur’s walking them to his room- he’s walking backwards, still in the hug.

“Fuck efficient,” Wilbur says. “I want to hug _my_ little brother, and I’m doing it now.”

“You’re clingy,” Tommy says, but buries himself in Wilbur’s coat and allows the man to wrestle him over. “I’m sorry for making you drive over.”

“I’ll literally drink the Coke I got you,” Wilbur says. “Don’t you dare.”

“Sorry,” Tommy says. “Oh.”

Wilbur laughs slightly, and Tommy feels himself be grappled with slightly before being gently thrown on the bed. The older man takes over his desk chair, dropping into it gracefully and crossing his legs. “Let me begin,” he says, reaching into the McDonalds bag and pulling out a Big Mac without tomatoes. He hands it to Tommy, who blinks down at it. “Makin’ it official. We’re talking over brunch now.”

“I don’t even know what that means,” Tommy grumbles, and Wilbur’s pleased to see him unwrap the burger simultaneously as he does. “You’re _old_ , Wil. You do brunch.”

“You can’t even drive, shut up,” Wilbur says. 

“I could,” Tommy says pointedly. “If I wanted to.” He takes a bite of the burger. Wilbur holds back the want to shout praise and affection at him for no reason at all. 

“Sure,” he says instead. “Child. Anyway,” he continues over Tommy’s protests. “Listen to me. I love you like my little brother, you mean the world to me, and nothing you do can make me think of you badly. I’ve had mental health issues in the past, I know it exists and everything you feel is valid.”

Tommy blinks at him, halfway through another bite. Wilbur waits, patiently, as he reaches for the massive cup of Coke and drains some and swallows the food down. “Oh,” he says, once he’s done. “Wilbur…”

“You can talk to me any time,” he says. “Whenever you want. Whatever you want. I’ll always be here.”

He can see Tommy’s eyes glazing over clear as day, and only just has time to drop his burger onto the desk before he, yet again, has two armfuls of child. “You’re so important,” he mumbles into his hair. “You deserve the world. Got it?”

Tommy doesn’t reply, or even just move, pressed into the brown leather of Wilbur’s jacket like a child. Wilbur sighs, slightly- he’d wanted to talk to Tommy as soon as he could, because hell knows how stressed the kid had been. Sleep was- okay. Maybe a good second place after a healthy conversation. 

“I’m proud of you,” he says, although he’s sure Tommy isn’t listening. “Thank you for- reaching out. At all.”

Tommy doesn’t respond. Wilbur pulls him higher up the chair so he doesn’t slide off and leans over to wrap up what’s left of the kid’s burger. "Love you," he says quietly.

**Author's Note:**

> man! anyone who's been reading encompass probably knows how bad my mental state has been recently, but. you know i can never go wrong with some quality dadza and big brother wilbur soot!! man!! i love them. they're father and his sons, your honor.
> 
> reminder that people love you no matter how much it may feel like they don't and that you're alone <3 and you're so strong for making it to where you are today. dadza's probably proud of you. 
> 
> leave a kudo, comment or bookmark if you enjoyed :) stay safe <3
> 
> tumblr: noorahqar  
> discord: https://discord.gg/w9CwSK26mm (copy paste into a browser)


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